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This is a question Filth!

Enzyme says: Tell us your tales of grot, grime, dirt, detritus and mess

(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 13:04)
Pages: Popular, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

MAny moons ago.
Many moons ago I worked at what at the time was a relatively upmarket pub. It was nothing special but they did keep the place what I thought quite clean and tidy so what I experienced one Monday morning nearly made me lose last nights beer.

Just as a note, thinking about it makes sense now, but at the time I really didn't understand, I had never seen one in the many pubs I had worked in before.

Now, although this particular pub was quite nice, quite well kept down in the bowels of the kitchen the staff were somewhat - hmmmmm - lazy. I think it was the a slight onset of rickets from the lack of sunlight or the crack cocaine problem one of the chefs had, but I digress.

The kitchen was clean but they cut corners the only way minimum wage staff can.

One job the emptying of a waste disposal and fat/oil trap sump thing. (I didn't know it even existed - I didn't know such a thing had ever existed there or anywhere else.) At about 11:30am, there was a problem with an order or some such requiring my presence in the kitchen. The lacky porter monkey boy had been given a job I would quit over. Emptying what one chap said hadnt been done since he'd been there, 18months. This was height of summer, in a hot kitchen, with food being prepped and dear lacky was using old mayo tubs to empty this sludge, oil, food waste tank.

I have a strong stomach, I can sniff bins, rotten milk my girlfriends arse. But this was hell. I can't begin to explain the stench, the look of it... I ran out of there and refused to go down for the rest of my shift.

I am sure they should be pumped out by professionals or some such??? Wrong.
(, Thu 9 Feb 2012, 1:21, 3 replies)
Filthy? Maybe. Dirty? Oh yeeeees ...
One of my favourite things is to roll out of bed in the morning. Put on the clothes I was wearing last night. Take the kids to school. And chat to the posh mummies, in full makeup and accoutrements, whilst stinking of last night's sex.
(, Thu 9 Feb 2012, 0:11, 4 replies)
A two-fer.
When my niece lived with us she used to like letting 1 of our cats nuzzle up to her face and often lick her around the mouth and nose.

Even after I explained what cats use for toilet paper.
(, Wed 8 Feb 2012, 23:52, Reply)
This beach has gone to the dogs.
In my yoof I had a dog called Brick. She was called thus because "2 Short Planks" just seemed cruel. You get the gist.

At the time I lived with my mum whilst going to boarding school. She lived south of Perth, about a block from the beach - so school hols. were always down the beach. Surfing, swimming, drinking & walking the dog.

For some reason some members of the public felt it necessary to relive themselves of a kilo (probably only a few hundred grams but this is qotw) or so of bodily waste in the dunes behind the beach.
For some other reason dogs seemed to find this effluent particularly attractive as an eau de cologne. & would roll in it much the way you or I might dab or pat some toilet water upon ourselves.

Then they would come to seek out their masters or mistresses to avail them of this striking new scent that they had discovered. Often their owners would only discover this new attractant once said puppy was at patting/bounding up onto distance.
Brick used to regularly not enjoy a swim in the ocean before returning home.

Moral of the story - don't shit where you beach, doggone it!
(, Wed 8 Feb 2012, 22:39, Reply)
A warm drink on a cold evening.
A few of us at work have set up a walking group and have been pretty religious with it. This means that even in the worst weather we will still climb some welsh hills or roam footpaths in the dark of winter. Two weeks ago we walked in driving sleet around the shithole that is Risca, South Wales and ended the walk with the usual pub visit.

The pub of choice was the Philanthropic Inn, a pub so tatty and worn not even a homeless man would stay the night.

Upon entering, the roundest spaniel I have ever seen in my life made loud whoop noises before trying to lick our hands away from our wrists. A colleague ventured to the men's (outside, of course. This building has not changed since the 1960s!) before returning looking a little green, and seemed to be steering well clear of the rotund spaniel.

It transpires that the dog enjoyed its drinks warm, and would lap at the steaming hot piss from the urinal trough as the punters filled it....bleurgh.

None of us dared go near the dog and quickly exited after the pints were mostly finished....
(, Wed 8 Feb 2012, 21:51, Reply)
I once left an apple in a pint glass under my bed
over the winter holidays in halls of residence. It wasn't deliberate; it was just in the farthest corner, hidden from all earthly detection.

Except nasal, of course. On my return, I was greeted with (when I finally found it) about half a pint of a liquid that was almost, but not quite, entirely unlike cider. Even in an environment of first year med students, vets and rugby players, challenges to drink the remains were met with universal rejection.

Eventually I flung it down the toilet, which - no kidding - spat it back out when I pulled the handle. Someone claimed that this was because they'd flushed out some of the plumbing over the holidays (a regular requirement around first year students, who on average have no idea what is acceptable to put where) and that there'd been air in the system, and that it was the first time the toilet had been flushed since so it was bound to be dodgy.
I knew the truth, of course; the liquid was so vile that even the porcelain maw couldn't bring itself to swallow.
(, Wed 8 Feb 2012, 19:21, Reply)
Railway Frolics
A pal of mine works for Network Rail. Nowadays he's stuck in an office all day, but for many years his duties included dealing with fatal accidents. Oh, what a lot of fascinating information that gave rise to. Typical sample

The undertakers didn't turn up, so we had to clear the line ourselves. I was dragging the torso over to the plastic bags when I though "This is getting lighter", so I looked down and saw that his intestines were dropping out.

Amazing fact for the day: when people standing on the track are hit by high-speed trains, they accelerate so fast (0 - 100mph in the time it takes for the train to move the thickness of the torso) that it's common for them to be lifted clean out of their shoes, which remain undisturbed in the final stance.
(, Wed 8 Feb 2012, 19:02, 6 replies)
minor, minor league stuff
by comparison to some of the horrors thus far gracing these pages, but today I replaced a kitchen in an old bungalow where the drawers were lined with old newspaper.

From 1961.

"cup of tea, dear?".... er... no thanks...
(, Wed 8 Feb 2012, 18:23, Reply)
Chinese crappers
A 'restaurant', HouJie, 2008

A friend tells me he's used this place before and the food's pretty good.

We enter and order. I need a piss, as we'd been on the lash, so off to the khazi I go.

Unzip, or unbutton, I can't remember which, and aim towards the hole in the ground. For those of you who don't know, it's unusual to find a 'Western' toilet outside of a hotel in China. It's also not unusual to enter a block of toilets to find a local, crouched down with the stall door wide open, taking a dump whilst reading a newspaper and smoking a tab. But I digress.........

Whilst blissfully relieving myself of a dozen or so bottles of Tsing Tao, I look around the cubicle and just over my right shoulder is something unusual.

On the floor, just by my foot, a chopping board. On it, a cleaver, some finely-chopped vegetables and a couple of partly dissected frogs.

I think I ate at McDonald's that night.
(, Wed 8 Feb 2012, 16:37, 1 reply)
i read this a while back and would hope that it's not true.
A fella had got very very drunk and pulled a slightly larger lady, got taken back to her place where he discovers she has a child.
The babysitter leaves, baby asleep upstairs they retire to her room. Lights stay off, he undress himself and her and the rude stuff starts to happen.
He's busy noshing on a boob when some liquid goes in his mouth and he swallows it.
He assumed it must've just been milk and she must've been still breast feeding.

Turns out it wasn't.

Turns out it was a massive boil.

(, Wed 8 Feb 2012, 16:34, 4 replies)
I had a job cleaning trains. We got a £20 bonus for cleaning up vom or shit from the seats, £100 for a toilet ‘blowback incident’ and £400 for helping clean up after a fatality. The inevitable Christmas suicides were great for helping with those little extras. I salute every one of the selfish fuckers.
(, Wed 8 Feb 2012, 16:01, 6 replies)
Fanny batter with a light menstrual drizzle
Back in the day, I used to work behind the bar in a popular local hostelry.

One evening, a co-worker got chatting to a rather friendly young lady as closing time approached, and took advantage of the break between clsoing time and chucking out time to get better acquainted with her in the rear of the premises.

After half an hour of what must have been some mighty fast work our hero retuned with what appeared to be a drawn on red biro beard which on closer inspection was not drawn on or was it red biro.

The large blood clot heading south from lip toward chin gave the game away to the exact nature of the newly acquired "beard".

To this day I don't know what was worse, the sight of it, or the other nine bar staff not telling him it was there until one of the customers vomitted in the doorway at the sight of it.
(, Wed 8 Feb 2012, 15:01, 3 replies)
I'll just let this roasted pea roll out.
Whilst at Uni in London, my friend Paul moved in to the recently vacated spare room at another mate’s house.

Before he could move his stuff in, he had to clear out the detritus the previous guy had left behind.

Whilst emptying the contents of the wardrobe into black bags, he found a rubber fanny wrapped up in a carrier bag.
Being the curious fellow he is, instead of instantly discarding it in the bin like a normal person, he decided to unwrap it and have a good look at it and to see how it works.

Whilst holding it up to the light to see how the vibrating mechanism was sited, a thick globule of old jizz rolled out of the rubber minge and dropped onto his face.

He claims to have thrown it away and not to have tried using it.
(, Wed 8 Feb 2012, 14:59, 3 replies)
My old bass teacher told me this one...
He had a student that had just bought a 2nd hand bass, quite an expensive one. The teacher imediately noticed something strange as the particlular make (that I can't remember) was well know for their beautiful pearl inlays on the fret board while this one was plain and dark. The teacher asked to have a closer look at the guitar and when holding it in his hands made a comment about the lack of inlay while gently scratching the fretboard only to discover, to his horror, that there was a peral inlay, hidden by a layer of grime composed of dirt, skin cells, sweat and possibly blood and blister puss (yes playing guitar can be disgusting).
(, Wed 8 Feb 2012, 13:55, 7 replies)
i like cheese and jam sandwiches.
that is all.
(, Wed 8 Feb 2012, 13:33, 24 replies)
Investigating a leak
The building had a flat roof and a known issue over autumn where leaves would block the drain. It was not easily accessible and therefore they usually only cleared it up when they deemed it to be necessary. I.E - When water was pissing through the ceiling.

The task was assigned to me, so I made the ascent up the ladder, pulled it up, climbed over the apex roof and down the other side, then used the ladder to gain access to the offending area.

It appeared that the Chip Shop that the building backed onto had taken to storing sacks of potatoes and the polystyrene trays in a room that backed onto the roof. Unfortunately the window was open and I could see that the room was, to put it bluntly, plastered in pigeon shit.

The blockage on the roof wasn't just caused by fallen leaves as was the usual culprit, but two dead pigeons with the leafy former content of a nearby tree providing the rest of the problem. The remains of the birds had washed into the drain during the heavy rain that fell during the previous few days.

I filled up two bin liners with leaves and rotten pigeon and went to the chip shop to point out the problem. They offered me a free tray of chips to stay quiet. I politely declined and reported them to the Council.

They were closed down the next day.
(, Wed 8 Feb 2012, 13:26, 4 replies)
Mr crispy
Bappage's post below reminds me of a story my friend told me.

Not long after finishing school he took an apprenticeship working at a funeral directors.

Part of the job involves removing the recently deceased from their place of death. On one occasion the person who’d recently snuffed it had died quite horrifically in a house fire.

After the police had done their bit (it was an accident), he was called in to remove the corpse.

My friend said he’ll never forget going to lift a well-done cadaver as his fingers broke the crispy flesh away and bodily fluids oozed out over his hands…
(, Wed 8 Feb 2012, 12:23, 7 replies)
A well-known and quite up-market restaurant in my town was inspected
The inspector noted that the kitchen had those floors that curve up to meet the wall, like you get in hospitals, so that there's no corner for things to get trapped in and it makes cleaning easier.

Then she looked again, and realised that it didn't in fact have that kind of floor. There was simply so much grease and dirt accumulated in the corners that it gave that impression...
(, Wed 8 Feb 2012, 11:57, 3 replies)
Pearoast alert
But bugger me, it fits in nicely here:

Many moons ago, I had a summer job (between my first and second years at university) as a contract cleaner/landscape gardener. The London-based company I was working for subcontracted from a lot of councils and whatnot, cleaning up council houses so they were ready for new tenants, taking care of council-owned fields and gardens and that kind of thing.

They also had a number of contracts with the metropolitan police, which mainly involved maintaining the greenery in and around police stations. All in all, it was a smashing job which paid cash in hand, got me outside and even the cleaning jobs that we did weren't too bad (the majority of the work I did was on the gardening side).

Anyhow, one day I got my job sheet and was told that my partner and I were on a police cleaning job, which was very unusual - most cleaning jobs were council ones (where you basically went into some scummy council flat, bleached the fuck out of everything and left). On the promise from the boss of a £50 bonus each for the day, we were only too happy to leap into the van and head to the site, mind. We got there and were shown in by a nervous-looking young copper past some 'Police Cordon' tape - not a great start.

What I saw inside will live with me forever. A guy had suspected his wife of having an affair, so had taken justice into his own hands - courtesy of a shotgun. Over the breakfast table, he had shot her point blank in the head, splattering her brains all up the wall behind her. Now this had happened a few days ago. Forensics had been in and removed the body, and taken photographs and samples and all that jazz. But the bit that happens next, they never show you on CSI, do they? Some poor fucker has to clean the remnants up. And that's where we came in.

As I said, this was a few days after the crime and the immediate investigation of the scene had been completed. In the height of a London summer, the brains and blood of the unfortunate woman had become crusted onto the walls, and we ended up resorting to using wallpaper scrapers to effectively chisel her grey matter from the wall.

I was 19, I was scraping the stinking brains of a dead woman from the walls. It was inevitable. Barely ten seconds in, I hurled. EVERYWHERE. I had no idea what I'd eaten, but it was fucking irrelevant. I projectile vomited over and over and over again, all over the carpet, the wall, the kitchen surface and (of course) myself.

I then spent the next hour cleaning up my own sick, while my (stronger-stomached) partner sorted out the brains. And we both got our £50 bonus that day, even though I provided my own mess to clean, in true Keynsian-economics style. I bought him a pint at the end of the day out of my bonus, mind. Although I didn't feel like one myself, funny enough.

The following summer, I got a job in Asda. Much less distressing.
(, Wed 8 Feb 2012, 11:50, 5 replies)
Romantic Evening
A few weeks ago Mrs Oblong and myself visited the beautiful island of Bali
Near to the Shopping mall in Kuta there is a really nice spot overlooking the Indian ocean where people wait for the sunset, a perfect spot for a romantic evening.
The waves were crashing on the beach and the Sun was just kissing the horizon it was a perfect warm night, Until the smell hit us.
Rolling about among the breaking waves was the bloated corpse of a Pig, the smell seemed to stick to our clothes, I'm sure I could smell it hours afterwards.
(, Wed 8 Feb 2012, 11:19, 3 replies)
The wrong kind of vacuum cleaner
On this occasion, the family alsatian had produced a massive puddle of diarrhea right outside my younger brother's bedroom door. It was brown, soupy and had a diameter of about 18 inches. I was there to witness the look of horror on my brother's face when he first saw it. I had to dash off to work, leaving my sibling to deal with the mess.

When I came home at 5 o'clock, there was not a trace of it to be found - all gone. I asked my brother how he had cleaned it up. 'I used the Hoover,' was his reply. As in, the brand new, upright Hoover (with paper dustbags) that our mum had bought a couple of weeks previously. 'You're joking?' I asked. He shook his head. I fetched the Hoover from the cupboard and opened it up. There was the sodden dustbag, oozing doggy discharge and stinking to high heaven. I turned the machine upside down and, sure enough, the brushes were all coated in a sticky brown sludge. I think he must have thought that all vacuum cleaners were the same and that, just like the Vax cleaners he had seen advertised on TV, they could all handle 'liquid' spills.

Despite stripping the Hoover down and soaking the parts in disinfectant, every time it was used thereafter left the house reeking of dog arse. It ended up in a skip.
(, Wed 8 Feb 2012, 11:17, 2 replies)
It's rarely pleasant going to the house of parents with very young children.
Goop everywhere, the washing up tends to be a half-hearted job, and/or the dishwasher is full, not run, and stinks.

There are toys, clothes and gunk everywhere, and suffice to say it's unwise to touch any surface or thing without the aid of one's swordstick.

Coupled with the harassed, desperate tiredness of said parent's face, and their unquenchable desire for space and sleep, any claims that their children are "The best thing that ever happened to them" tend to ring fairly hollow.

This is why I prefer to frequent hotel bars instead.
(, Wed 8 Feb 2012, 11:14, 5 replies)
Potential poisoning just for shits and giggles (mostly shits)…

Only last night I was regaled with this tale on the subject of things very foul. Now, before anyone starts – I was told this by a bloke that I haven’t known for very long, who was rat-arsed, in the pub, so as we all know – these types of people are amongst the most truthful and trustworthy of all living things, and so all shouts of ‘lies’ will instantly be declared null and void. Needless to say however, I shall resort to using the word ‘apparently’ quite a bit…

As we chatted, I happened to mention the subject of this weeks’ QotW to my friend, and inevitably the subject wandered on to various disgusting things that we had witnessed in our lives. My compadre, however, then proceeded to out-do any of my feeble efforts by dragging up the following fable.

‘Apparently’, a few years back, the very pub we were wallowing in last night was frequented by a bloke called ‘Pete’, who, to put it mildly was an utterly wankish cunt-cake – we’re talking Piers Morgan league here. An oafish, overly confident cockboil who would insist on ‘playing’ the most feeble and generally unfunny practical jokes this side of Uranus.

One of his favourite ‘japes’ was to spike people’s drinks with Mercury. Now I wasn’t aware of this, but it was explained to me that the dense properties of mercury have a tendency to react with the stomach contents to create a highly powerful (and potentially painful) laxative. Oh, how everybody nobody but Pete would laugh as random helpless victims would occasionally find themselves with a look of purest despair etched across their faces, before leaping up and legging it to the crappers - their thumbs securely up their shitesockets, where they would then proceed to veritably shit themselves there and back again.

The teller of this tale was also the victim of this cruel jocularity once, and my face contorted with horror as he described his walk home from the pub that fateful day, where he would have to stop every few yards, rapidly heave his kex to the floor by the nearest available patch of grass, and then empty himself with the minging megathrust of an arse-assisted Asian Tsunami.

However, even this pales into comparison to the time when Pete decided to expand his victim list from regulars (who had the ability to exact revenge on him) to total strangers, and he once popped his poo-producing prank into the drink of an attractive lady in her thirties who had innocently walked into the pub with some friends…and was wearing a white dress. Strewth.

I was informed that Pete, an overweight, sweating globule of lumbering disgusting-ness could adopt the stealth of a veritable ninja when it came to dropping this ‘weapon of ass destruction’ onto unsuspecting townsfolk (I imagine he’s probably now quite adept at dispensing royhpnol – he sounds like that sort of bloke), and not only was the unsuspecting woman none the wiser to this twatblocks’ masterplan, but nobody else saw him do it either so they could give her fair warning.

The lady sipped away at her drink as she continued her innocent chat with her companions, blissfully oblivious to the untold horror that was about to unfold. My friends’ suspicions were first aroused that something might not be right when he overheard the lady complaining of stomach ache. With this, his glanced turned to Pete - who had already started his trademark evil cackle...

Bless her, my witness informs me that despite the obvious discomfort, the poor woman must’ve been trying to remain ladylike and ‘hold it in’ pinching her butt-cheeks together ever tighter whilst inevitably plunging towards crisis point. It was just a matter of time...

Finally, she decided that she could wait no longer and stood up…but the problem was that she had already waited too long. As she rose and purposefully strode towards the toilet, her dress began to dramatically stain as her rupturing innards decided to give in and explode involuntarily. The woman then launched into a sprint as she continued spraying violently down her clothes and legs as her farting springs mercilessly quacked out gallons of purest liquid shit into the surrounding area.

A wave of shock washed over the whole pub as the woman's friends rushed to her aid and Pete continued to prolapse with laughter.

Eventually he was barred for some other preposterous ploy that backfired hideously. However, I asked my friend why nobody had ever turned him in, and I was told that although it was obviously Pete that was the perpetrator, his guilt was only inferred by his ever-presence whenever this despicable act occurred, and Pete’s response every time, in conjunction with his accompanying conversations regarding the usage of Mercury – unfortunately this only made for circumstantial evidence. Nobody had physically seen him drop the mercury first hand. However, I understand that ‘pub-justice’ was exacted on him on more than a few occasions.

Overall though, I think I’m glad I never met this ‘Pete’ chap – as I feel I would be quite justified in kicking him squarely in the man-berries. What a cunt.
(, Wed 8 Feb 2012, 10:58, 6 replies)
Hmm. Another long suppressed memory.
In our grotty student house, two people had cats. Friendly furry little chaps they were, everybody enjoyed having them around.

One of them (Arnold) got locked in the bathroom, and crapped in the corner behind the sink. No problem, these things happen. Cleanup crew to aisle 6 please. The only problem was that the bathroom had carpet. OK, well a bit of extra scrubbing, job done.

Things returned to normality, Arnold once again returned to shitting in the garden, and burying it, as cats normally do.

Over the next few weeks, the faint smell of catshit in the bathroom began to pervade. Rather than fading, it grew. We scrubbed the carpet again, used some flowery ungents, but no, the smell just wouldn't go.

After about a month of this, someone decided the carpet must go. £7.50 was collected from the 4 residents, and 6 square metres of cheap lino bought.

When the carpet was lifted, we discovered that Arnold had apprently discovered the joy of not having to shit in a cold garden. He had worked out that if you pull at the corner of the carpet with claws, it lifts. You can then crap, and drop the carpet back down - burying it, right?

There must have been about 2kg of catshit piled up in there. *bowk*
(, Wed 8 Feb 2012, 9:08, Reply)
Dogs anus gets squeezed.
My missus & I have a friend (whom I shall call Pinkey). Pinkey is a character, she's spent time in psych wards, drinks more than I can (and that ladles and germs is a feat unto itself) and is generally fairly straight-forward and eccentric. She also owns dogs and loves them absolutely.

So there are Pinkey & I drinking one afternoon and I ask her about why she had to take her dog Lili to the vets that day.
"Oh she had infected anal glands." says she. Totally blase. What the flugjustery fuck?!
She then goes on to explain the situation (here is a link that explains it) and then proceeds to demonstrate the technique for squeezing pus-like fluid out of Lili's bum to relieve the swelling. Lili looks a tad non-plussed. A stream of the most disgustingly smelling pussy, yellow fluid squirts out of Lili's bum. Pinkey's other dog Mex decides that this stuff that just landed on the grass is the fucking best eau de cologne that there could possibly be for a dog. And rolls in it. A lot. And then bolts thru our backdoor (not a euphemism) into the house.
The smell never really left the couch where Mex ended up and the patch of lawn out the back was literally still stinky 3 days later.
Pinky wasn't invited into the kitchen that night to assist with meal prep.

On a tangent.
My spoilt daughter got given a Furr-Real dog by my Monster-In-Law for her last birthday.
To turn it on and off you have to flick a switch right where it's date would be. Much as you might empty out it's swollen infected anal glands. It usually yelps when you turn it off.
(, Wed 8 Feb 2012, 8:54, 1 reply)
A couple of years ago
I lived with a young lady of my very vague acquaintance. She was, as students tend to be, a little relaxed about housekeeping, much to my second flatmate's chagrin. His M.O. was to complain about mess at any and all opportunities without being so bold as to do anything about it, so her attitude of leaving full bin bags outside her door as if that were the end of the matter was source of vexation to the point that he almost talked to her to remind her not to, but luckily it never came to all that.

In any case, when it came time to move out of the flat much tidying was required, so as to convert our abode from a messy hellscape to the more aesthetically pleasing barren hellscape. This was a flat with supernatural powers of mess accumulation. The shower drain became so blocked with hair weekly that it was literally a source of wonder that none of us was bald. The kitchen exuded grease. I don't mean our diets were particularly unhealthy: we were so poor that little beyond toast, beans, lentils and pasta were consumed there. I mean anything left out for long enough would somehow acquire a stubborn greasy coating as if from some mischievous chip fat-themed trickster spirit. This included work surfaces, and thus warranted a constant battle between the cheapest washing-up liquid available and the mysterious puck's oleaginous excreta.

This is just so much prevarication. The true nadir of the story comes on the very last day of living there. The lady had disappeared a few days previous so I go into her room to check she hadn't left anything behind. She has: three full bin bags and a bowl of stale Hobnobs. "Hold on", think I, "who could think of this as an acceptable state to leave a room in? It's as if once something goes in a bin she thinks her part in the matter is concluded."

There are two bins in the bathroom: one is for general waste - your spent razor blades, cardboard tubes, waxy cotton buds etc.; I keep it maintained as best I can. The other has a swing lid and is for feminine hygiene; I have nothing to do with it, until now. Sordid, sordid curiosity gets the better of me and I lift the lid with genuine fear in my soul.

The fear wafts up and punches me in the nostrils; the bin has not been dealt with for the entire year. White cotton is stained brown in places, and has rotted black in others. When veterans talk of the stench of death I have a sudden epiphany about their words. Twelve weeks of unneeded womb lining smells almost exactly like you think it would.

I sent her a text asking her when she'd be along to clean up the rest of her stuff, and mentioned the sanitary bin in passing as if I hadn't really thought about it. What else could I do?

Length? It turned inside out momentarily. Nothing puts you off vaginas like a brutal olfactory reminder of their least pleasant feature.
(, Wed 8 Feb 2012, 0:25, 3 replies)
I once had to do an assessment
at a rendering plant, where they boil up inedible meat to skim off the fat.
The operator handed me two plugs for my ears. The noise wasn't nearly as bad as the smell so after a while I shoved a plug up each nostril.
"I wouldn't do that," said the operator,"Once the smell gets on your tongue, you'll be tasting it for weeks."
(, Tue 7 Feb 2012, 23:08, Reply)
Old Lady Wax
Rachel was a near blind old woman who used to push a mop around the workshop in a vain attempt to keep the place clean. She was a nice enough old bird, but was a bit 'odd'. As she was 'optically challenged', she had a digital watch that spoke the time in a Stephen Hawking type voice when she pushed a button on the front.

One day she asked me if I would help her out by replacing the battery on the watch as it had run out and Stephen wouldn't tell her the time any more. She lacked the dexterity, knowledge and eyesight to do the job herself and was getting a bit upset about it. Being a nice chap I agreed, after all, how hard could it be?

She took the watch off and handed it to me with a happy smile on her face. Then I looked down and saw what I'd let myself in for...

You know when you've been wearing a watch for a while, some sort of residue builds up on the back and around the screws? Well imagine that, but about 10 years old and 1/4" deep. The whole back of the watch was brown with the stuff. It was caked over the straps and creeping around the edges of the face. I had to scrape the smelly, waxy crap off to find the screws holding the back on. It stuck to everything that came into contact with it and stank of stale sweat and cat piss.

I replaced the battery as quick as I could and resisted the temptation to dunk the watch into the solvents that I'd used to clean my tools. I ended up cleaning the whole watch as it looked odd with chunks of the coating scraped away. The stale odour stayed on my fingers though several OCD-like scrubbing sessions and my lunch made several bids for freedom as I discovered bits of the gunk under my fingernails.

Rachel came back the next day and was delighted to see (or rather hear) her watch working again. She was obviously impressed by my efforts, because she brought her spare talking watch (complete with fresh old lady wax) in for battery replacement a couple of days later.
(, Tue 7 Feb 2012, 22:30, 2 replies)
Not quite filth, but messy
My hamster, Bailey, is 2 1/2 years old - which must be about 90 in hamster years.

Tonight is cage-cleaning night, and as usual I opened the bottom of his cage and gave him some fuss before picking him up to put in his ball so he can run around the flat whilst I clean.

Clearly his advancing years has made him somewhat cranky, because the little bugger decided to bite my left index finger. Hard . It fucking hurt, and pissed blood all over my trousers and floor (god bless laminate flooring). Honestly, I never knew a finger could (a) bleed that much, that quickly or (b) swell up that damn fast.

Of course, in the time between him biting me and me reacting (read: screaming and cursing) that I had dropped him on the floor - so, trying to get Bailey into a hamster ball + trying to apply enough pressure to stem bleeding = getting said blood smeered across the floor. It looked like a mini murder scene.

So, tomorrow I get the joy of a tetnus shot in my lunch break. Joy of joys.

Picture link below:
(, Tue 7 Feb 2012, 21:29, 7 replies)

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